


Montagu

by fangirl2013, SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Medieval - Fandom, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:53:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl2013/pseuds/fangirl2013, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayal tares the heart to shreds. It burns the skin and shows upon a mans features. When one is betrayed he is never alone, forever carrying the weight of the world atop of the pile of his devastating sins. It is damnation itself. I do not ask for pity or mercy, even an end to this pain. I do not deserve it. I do not deserve forgiveness. I deserve to be remembered. I deserve to tell the truth as he would never hear it, they would never hear it. I was the voice of wisdom they all ignored. Now they wish to pay attention, when the weight of guilt sits heavy in my gut and blood flows free as oceans.</p><p>Now they wish to pay attention when it is much too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Betrayal tares the heart to shreds. It burns the skin and shows upon a mans features. When one is betrayed he is never alone, forever carrying the weight of the world atop of the pile of his devastating sins. It is damnation itself. I do not ask for pity or mercy, even an end to this pain. I do not deserve it. I do not deserve forgiveness. I deserve to be remembered. I deserve to tell the truth as he would never hear it, they would never hear it. I was the voice of wisdom they all ignored. Now they wish to pay attention, when the weight of guilt sits heavy in my gut and blood flows free as oceans._

_Now they wish to pay attention when it is much too late._

 

**Blore Heath, North England, 1459**

 

"My lord and father." His deep voice was formal without the hint if panic drawing on his words. John Neville manoeuvred his horse forward, pulling it in beside Salisbury, the great figure ahead of his 5000 men. He was about to open his mouth when the blunder began. The charger came from the mist, in part controlled by Thomas Neville.

"Papa!" He was knocked to the floor before he could say another word. Wincing the handsome youth rose, complaining as he did. His brother's cold eyes silenced him.

"My lord, the scouts report Lancastrians ahead."

"In what volume?" Salisbury looked forward, he had barely acknowledged the presence of either son. No names were needed to know whom he addressed.

"Twice our own my lord." They shared glances now, eyes darting to Thomas.

"Are they set on battle?" John just nodded. "Then there is no choice." His move was deliberate, obvious. He turned his horse to his men, bellowing so men within the mile would hear his words. "Form your lines!" Men moved into place. Three clear sections in obvious order. Archers lined at their front.

"Today we will fight and tonight we will win!" He did not see his sons cringe, more for their good fortune. "Lord Audley it seems will not stand down his men and let us pass on our business. Some of you may die, but have faith it is for righteousness and with the blessing of God." He said nothing more to the thousands, turning to his sons, soon extended by Warwicks awkward presence."How many are there? Truly?"

"North of ten thousand sir." The Earl of Warwick, Salisbury's oldest son spoke with a clipped accent, his voice deeper than any of his brothers, his figure accompanied his somewhat mighty presence. Over confidence and arrogance his younger brothers had accredited it to.

"Jesu." Salisbury muttered in return. The word spread like wildfire, men fell to their knees, blessing the ground on which they believed they would be slaughtered. "You can run, but then you will all be slaughtered!" The men stopped their act, they straightened quickly. "Hold lines! Lord Warwick, keep form."

Salisbury spurred his horse, galloping down the bank signalling for his sons to follow. "Go on you knaves." Warwick flashed a smile before using a steeled hand to slap their mounts rears. Soon they were beside their father reining in. John's eyes cast themselves to Warwick upon his destrier upon the hills brink. Inwardly he cursed the brother two years his senior.

"Lord Audley, always a pleasure." Before that moment John was convinced he had never heard sarcasm in his father's precise tone.

A tone reciprocated by Audley with much amusement. "Salisbury, a pleasure indeed. I am so pleased York and yourself think it still worthwhile to bring your nurseries to these events." John tensed, hand reaching for the dagger at his belt. Temptation rose, how easy it would be to cut the bastards throat. Salisbury's disapproving glance stopped his hand, and Tom's albeit more reluctantly.

"My sons both be old enough to fight. I assure you sir. And do well at it, but do not force their hands. They are no more eager than I to fight."

"You come to talk of peace?"

"And you come alone to take an army, sir I think not. For all you are, a fool is not one of your shining attributes."

"You charm me with your words. If I was a bonnie lass you'd woo me." His voice was flat, cold and toneless. "You negotiate for York? He will surrender?"

"I cannot talk for York as you do well know, and surrender was not a word I used-"

"We are Neville's. We do not surrender." Thomas spoke in echo of the words Warwick would say. John cringed and Salisbury kicked his youngest son.

"Apologies for the lads sharp tongue my lord." Audley shrugged. "Can we talk of peace?"

"Surrender of lands and title's and a spell in the tower. Tis his graces only offer for the pardon of your lives alone."

"Our?" John spoke for the first time, hands tightening on the leather reins.

"Why yes my lord Neville. Your father said it plainly, you're old enough to fight and so old enough to die."

"Papa! Cannot be true." Thomas looked scared, backed back by Salisbury's glare and Audley's laugh.

"Hold your tongue boy!" The Earl's patience had dwindled completely. "Fine Audley you do win. Ready your men we shall meet for battle." He turned the horse and left, leaving John and Thomas to follow at will.

They turned, Audley took his chances, grabbing John's stirrup. "Neville, surrender yourself now and spare yourself the pain of battle." A single kick freed him from Lancastrain restraint. Never had his horse seen so much pressure to flee. Arrows began to rain from the sky. The order had come from both sides. They were dancing with death as Thomas and John cleared the hill, jumping from their horses for some.form of cover from the lethal shower.

By the time they regrouped they noticed the change in mood. "If they want a war they shall damned well have one! Damn them!"

"But we are to get to Ludlow." Thomas's objection was more of a whine.

"Then go now, go on." Salisbury snapped as they had never seen him snap before.

"No! I will be slaughtered!"

"And that fate will befall us all if we dont fight boy. Enough of your smart words and do as you're told."

"We will fight?" John couldn't decide if his voice was hopeful or fearful. His heart pounded painfully whichever it was.

"Centre, fall back! Fall back!" Salisbury turned his horse unexpectedly, sending his centre defence fleeing backward, shepherded to a stop by Warwick. "Halt!" They all turned back to the front, victory flashing on Salisbury's features as Lancastrian infantry began their run. John watched in mesmerized fascination. What was his father doing? His eyes scanned, before he knew his own reactions the sword was unsheathed and held firmly in his hands. He froze, heart pounding as men ran toward him like Satan's incarnates. Insane with the smell of blood teasing them to kill. "Charge!" The order came as the Lancastrian men reached the hilltop only to be mowed down by a sea of cutting blades. One wave after another falling like flies until their retreat sent them fleeing toward Audley with talk of defeat already on their tongues.

Their shouts were heard by Yorkist ears. Retreat was the command of the common man, to be ignored in arrogance by noble fools. Lord Audley had his ill thought way, men regrouped, the Yorkists looked upon it with anticipation, curiosity. The question was pursed on the lips of every man educated in warfare. What was his plan? It took little time to notice his lack of strategy, his quick thought planning. Poor low cost training, it would cost him dear.

Salisbury knew it well as he prepared; dismounting to join union with the common man. The bodies they demanded bleed for their own victory, for their success and gain. The bodies they needed for power and for life. John joined his father, sending Thomas to their eldest brother. All Neville's knew that they must succeed, for York was dead with their failure.

"Formations men!" Their confidence had risen since the last round, the Lancastrian disaster proving superior Yorkist strength. Their soon past belief of certain death now forgotten. Little did they know that luck would fade though not desert them. Their cause would not be abandoned. Eyes focused and ears pricked, senses primed and muscles tensed as below the hoard began to make its move.

The approach first slow as anxious men walked with hopelessness to their demise. A thousand fell before the right flank of the Yorkist vanguard collapsed. Men fell with mighty screams, others ran at the sight of breaking bodies and Lancastrian gain. Who could blame them, the numbers were endless tsunamis upon the slight forces at Neville backs. A hasty decision on Warwick's part to flee left, with superior forces left Thomas unprotected with a diminishing army. John swerved right in defensive, forming a barrier to his brother's back among the chaos.

Audley rose above them all, the obvious figure taking the typical enemy stance. Upon his horse raised high above the masses, immune to the touch of men or scratch of blade. Cowardice hid itself firmly behind fine plate armour. "A plague upon him." John muttered the words to his brothers agreement. Hand in hand they approached as Audley's mount charged head toward them. Free of its rein for teeth to rip flesh as they pleased. It seemed a foolish plan of pent up folly. The mischief of two young boys not at battle but in the school room, risking their tutors displeasure not guaranteed death; certain butchery.

Still they faced it bravely as they cursed misfortune, Audley and Warwick their brother for his own abandonment to the thriving flank. His deflection toward larger numbers.

It was a sign of that yet to come. For those brave enough to venture into witchcraft, for women and sorcerers or the free beings of the hethan regions. For pagans and devils. Then it was a tale preaching unheard of devastation. John did not think much of future or that yet to come as Audley's blade swung south granting Thomas it's first blow. The boy fell to the floor motionless and merging with thickening mud. For shock he hoped not death, for Thomas was so young and undeserving - despite his stupidity and overwhelming innocence - and God they said was so merciful, so surely He would grant mercy and His power, His blessing, not His vengeance and spare Thomas the fate he least deserved. Accept the sin of sacrifice, but the commitment of self and save the child to capture another soul.

John Neville did not look to see the second blow aimed just above his head. He did not have time to prey for forgiveness or his soul, nor to think of his wife, sweet Isobel or the children he would leave behind. His vision ceased to sudden blackness before his legs buckled beneath him. He could still hear the sounds of battle fading in his ears as he lost the feeling of the cold mud upon his skin. No chance he had to feel the movement of his body as his frame was tossed upon a saddle besides his brothers and led away in capable Lancastrian hands.

As he slipped further into his pooling darkness he swore he heard Audley's final cry of pain, the sounds of feet retreating back through the swarms of dying men and finally, more distant the shouts of despair before all went silent.

"Johnny!" That voice, oh how it did sound familiar.


	2. Chapter 2

Chester Castle.

His hands rung wine from the torn up shirt which had once been his. He . Pressed against the seeping slash in his brother's shin, down the muscles which refused to relax. Johnny's leg shook painfully, the wound itself slowly blackening from the less than adequate conditions, the skin surrounding the ugly gash was yellowing. None had come to check on them, soon Thomas Neville had come to the reality that none did care enough to check on them. He was thankful then for the arrival of bread and wine each night to make the terrifying days more bearable. 

His heart beat heavy with fear. The rags were sticky with crimson blood, he washed it once more pressing the cloth to his brother's leg, wincing as John kicked to life. His body reacting to instant pain. Thomas sighed, in the first three days he had been frightened each time fits of pain interrupted the fever and John was wracked as now he was, trying to scream without voice to release. Now he had learned, this was his brother's current wakefulness, this was his opportunity to keep Johnny alive. To keep himself alive, they needed each other. That was the reason responsibility now burned, Thomas had never been the one needed, not as he was needed now. 

He broke bread, pressing the stale chunk to Johnny's mouth praying as he always did that he would take a bite. He did, coughing on crumbs till Tom poured wine into his forced open mouth, a gentle finger rubbed down the throat to make him swallow. Thomas had learned that from his cousin at just thirteen. But four years ago he and Edward, Earl of March and Edmund, Earl of Rutland and younger than Thomas and Edward by little more than a year, they had been alone out in the woods at Ludlow, before St Albans had separated them. Rutland's puppy, a pedigree spaniel had caught water in its throat, saved from drowning only by Edward's careful hands. The boys had spent curious hours discussing the matter, would it work on humans? They had at the time deemed it inconclusive. Edward, Edmund, the answer was yes. 

He thought to his cousins now as he cushioned his favourite brothers head. How they were so lucky, to be so close in age. Edward had Edmund, George had Richard. Only ten years stood between the oldest and the youngest. Thirteen years between he and Warwick, twelve between he and Johnny and eleven between he and George. Was it a wonder they all did seem untouchable? An earl, a bishop and all peers of the realm. Thomas knew well his status, a knight, a warrior but forever a child to his brothers. His loyalty ignored by them as playful attachment, except by Johnny. In recent months John had earned his place as the favoured brother well, he had seen Thomas as more than a mere child but a man with opinions worthwhile hearing. 

He couldn't help but wonder was this how Richard, his serious little cousin in the York rabble felt at just seven? He could hardly imagine it. York valued all his children, and the brothers loved each other right dear. 

He looked to his own brother as he muttered, perhaps a prayer for Thomas was sure his brother was talking to Jesus. He had only to hope it was in life and not upon the brink of death he called to the Christ child. It was then, the first time in almost a week John's eyes opened. Thomas cursed their captors, why did it have to be this way, that John was to wake up to the smell of thickening damp and mould, subject to the sharp bite of icy air sheltered only by a blanket as comforting as a hair shirt. "Johnny?" Brown eyes looked to him, sparkling with tears but no confusion. "Oh Johnny." He could not help but risk his brothers displeasure and break protocol with a firm embrace. 

Johnny cried out, whimpering as the wined rag dug in deeper. Footsteps from outside interrupted their peace, the first taste of outside company would arrive in seconds. The door opened allowing three people to enter. First came in the young boy, no older than Thomas. John Done he claimed to be his name in a voice filled with attitude as he pushed Thomas out of the way, clearing an obvious path. Thomas would have demanded respect, at least asked what it was he had supposedly done to deserve such treatment. Until it became obvious that was. "Doctor Morton, please come in." Margaret of Anjou held up a hand to silence Thomas before he spoke. "Sir John needs your medical assistance." 

Morton looked at the leg and winced, pulling away the rags to more screams. He opened the bag his tutors had taught him to carry taking cloth from its heart, a knife, silk and needle followed by two jars. He opened one of the jars, podgey bloodstreaked fingers grabbing leeches for the wound. Thomas felt himself about to vomit as the creatures suckled on blood. The cloth was dipped in the second jar before rolled and forced in John's mouth to stop the screams. "Laudenum." He looked to Thomas whose skin was white before taking up the knife cutting away the 'dead flesh'. Soon he was sewing up the flesh.

"Thomas, come here." Morton said, bringing the boy forward. "Hold his leg."

"Who are you?" Thomas asked as he gripped his brothers leg. 

"Doctor Morton, kings physician." 

"He is here to help your brother. Then we shall move you both. Master Done seems to have offered wholly unsuitable accommodation for such valuable treasures." Margaret spoke looking to the boy with accusing eyes. He shuddered and apologized, smiling as John looked terrified from pain. "Done, grab Sir John's hand. He is not to die, he is worthless dead. He is worthless less than well."

"We will be ransomed?"

"Yes. Once your brother is well enough to be moved." Eyes moved to Morton. 

"This afternoon your grace, should all be well. He needs meat and fruit for recovery." The queen nodded.

"Perhaps Master Done would show sir Thomas to their new lodgjngs. Now if Morton does not mind." The doctor nodded despite disagreeing, fearing disagreeing with his queen. Done turned to Thomas before walking to the door holding it open. "Go sir Thomas. I am sure you will be no comfortable."

They were half way to the new lodgjngs when Thomas dared to ask. "How can you hate me so much and treat me with such contempt when you are so much lower than me, when you are so young?"

"My father, Neville men killed my father in the battle."

"Men die in battle lad."

"Conveniently, so few of yours."

"That's why you were on the losing side."

"And it has left me orphaned." He paused as he opened the door to the new lodgings. "At fifteen. Queen Margaret, the she wolf as you call her took me in. Would York do that? No? Consider are you really on the right side?" Thomas passed through the threshold and into the room. "Your brother will be with you soon."

He wasn't, it was two days before John entered, limping though in decent humour.


	3. Chapter 3

Brother.

I pray God you do get this. Please the Lord prying eyes do not see these words. We are in Calais for Ludlow was seized by Lancastrian tyrants. Send word you are well, Thomas too. Please God you should both alive. York is fled from Ludlow, staying dictated defeat. Rutland and York were to Dublin,March accompanied our Lord father and I to France. I beg you both, do not give up hope. Prey daily to Our Lord God and the Lady Mary the Virgin to save you. 

Report nothing to Thomas, I fear for him more than all. He is so young, no more than a child and we put so much upon him. He could not be with a better man than you brother.

With my love brother and my blessing. 

E. Warwicke. 

How he could not agree with any words more, Thomas was not ready to know the ins and outs or face the ugly consequences of war. However much he thought he wanted to be.

John looked to Thomas as the boy glanced through the thick paned window to the world beyond. The painful expression set permanently upon the boys features hinted at his regret, of how he missed the world outside the castle walls. It was doubtless they had been treated well, John knew it well himself that their rooms were suitably equipped for men of their status. That they had servants s nd the right to their own household, even at its reduced size, signalled some form of value to their limited existence. This was not enough to please poor Tom. 

Tis the price one pays for youth, with that prize comes impatience and boredom, leaving the child unable to see their own fortune beyond the misfortune of the negative they want to see. The goblet could be half empty Thomas, or it could be half full. Even if it is empty lad, it is not truly, for air does fill where wine should be. He did not say it out loud, in part because he knew naught of how it would sound to immature ears, or how indeed he would take it himself. He feared beyond all hypocrisy. The goblet may be filled with air, t'was no good to the thirsty man. 

Only keys and man power would cure their current predicament. Neither of which they had and so it seemed fruitless, a pointless expenditure of precious energy to make attempt to cheer Tom in anyway when it was hard to be cheerful himself. His children played upon his mind, young George, but nine in his years already preparing to take his father's role should he be so unfortunate as to lose his life, a rare though hardly unheard of approach to ridding oneself of ignored prisoners. That was no way for a boy to live out his years, following in the shadow of his father's bloody and untimely demise. As for the girls, whatever would they do, what would they become without a noble and living father to see their dowrys paid and betrothals negotiated. Isobel, dear God what would Isobel do without her husband? 

Thomas broke the chain of never ending depressing thoughts. He had turned from the window with a nervous look upon his face, his voice was quiet as he spoke, his voice matched his expression. "Who wrote?" Thomas knew he should not ask, for the letter had come for Johnny not him, though he had not been able to help it, when he had seen the seal waxed onto the back of the letter, he could not help but allow himself curiosity. Surely their situation allowed for the collapse of such stupid rules and leniency of the regulated Neville etiquette. Although the expression upon John's face suggest much the opposite. 

His resolve broke as he looked to his little brother, looking once again like a boy. Like the child he had been acutely, covertly fond of. Of the child he had not known until the lad had need to prematurely meet a brutal manhood. The boy they all now missed. Aggravated expression for weeks had not left him. Not reduces since the rumours of six month's past, the sacking of Ludlow where men and women and children were tried with equal guilt and punished for their innocence, where presence had meant certain death. These horrific events were undoubtedly now confirmed. It was obvious what Thomas feared, if death had befallen their young cousins no man was safe. No matter how he tried, the truth would not come to Johnny's tongue, it would not leave his mouth as he crumpled the letter in sweaty palms. "Tis from Belle."

"Your wife?" Thomas looked stunned. Had his eyes deceived him? Certainly not, but Johnny's words were adamant, not to be questioned. "No word from our brother, our father?" 

"They are in Calais and safe with our noble cousin of March." 

"Alive? They can pay ransom?" Thomas looked hopeful for a moment, put off by his brother's silence. John wished not to break the boys heart by saying a word. "But they will not be coming for us if they are in Calais? Will they return?" John had no time to answer, nor time to think upon an answer as Thomas plunged himself deeper into panic, encouraged by on going questions. "Dear God they will not, cannot, but what will befall us if they do not?" 

"They will come back!" John snapped, himself unwilling to think of the consequences of Thomas's devastating suggestion, for should that happen they were surely doomed. "They will not abandon us, remember our brother Georges teachings and be gentle Thomas. God will not forsake us, for he does love all men and innocents if they have love in him." John laughed as he thought of their brothers teachings. For George had been no more willing to join the church than Lucifer to be an angel. How long before he would be titled Judas? He would not be happy with forced abstinence and celibacy. He was too proud, too much a Neville to not desire a son, an heir. Yet George preached the word if the Lord, believing in it as much as he believed in peace, the bishop of Exeter would be a better soldier than priest, if only their father had seen it perhaps he would be happy in his position. Or perhaps he too would be in this hopeless predicament, praying each morning would come with as much light and life as did the last. "Do you love as you were taught?" Thomas nodded as John reached an orange from the fruit bowl beside their bed. He tossed one to Thomas, the boy missed it,.shaking hands reaching for the sphere. 

Poor child, his nerves are so taught and he so fearful. He loses hope each second as I lose it by the day. The price of youth, tis dear. 

John regretted hiding the true content of the letter from the younger man, hiding it still to protect him from Warwick's cool words. To protect him from festering that lack of trust so set amongst his Neville kindred. Hatred for his family was not what would aid Thomas in his survival. 

"Ah Tom lad." John rose, limping as weight found his still tender leg making it shake in objection. Several limping steps took him to the boys side. Thomas resumed his stare out of the thick glass. Ignoring his brothers intimate proximity until his hand touched his hair. "Have my word and take heart, we will be free within the month. Keep faith."

Thomas smiled his heart refusing to believe such words as faith, hope and courage began to fade. The glass reflected : is brothers retreating figure, suddenly aged in the distorted reflection as he limped to the bed. 

Little did either men know that as John Neville slipped beneath the coverlets, Thomas assisting to close velvet bed curtains before joining his brother for the precious warmth. In a Calais a plan was to be hatched like no other as men boarded a ship, heading forthwith and with speed to Kent. From their they would march with full glory to London to seize their capital and take control. Upon word from the commons and order of Warwick, they began the move north heading to Northampton. 

The Neville brothers would only know when morning came, and they were awoken to a flurry of men readying arms. The doors opened as they were roused. "Come, we make haste for Northampton where York's whelp the Earl of March disturbs his graces peace." 

His Lord of March to them meant only one thing. Ahead of hope and luck, instead of war or conflict, the meaning which accompanied the words 'his Lord of March' was Warwick; Warwick is coming - and with that was freedom. 

They did not tally to make progress, freedom rarely brings a second chance. Lady fortuna is rarely so obvious John explained to Thomas as though he knew. They did not talk about their fears through their closely monitored, muddy journey to Northampton. 

***

Northampton, 1460.

Thomas had fallen silent when the king arrived, following his brothers lead he fell before Henry and begged forgiveness upon his knees. Thomas laughed inside, silent to all. The king it seemed knew nothing of what they were to be forgiven for, else he just forgave everyone anyway. Perhaps it was the second, had Somerset coached the mad king to seem benevolent to all in order to gain favour from his rapidly tiring subjects? 

Doubtless really. 

They had reached their tent minutes before, finally alone apart from the guards standing tall for if they should plot their escape before negotiations were over. Thomas sat in one of the chairs, cushioning his back after the long ride. He couldn't help but wonder, when he had seen the king, mad king Henry as they called him, he had been far from convinced of the monarchs insanity. 

All that had been visible was his clear anxiety, pre-battle nerves. If the evidence around his neck was to be noted, and the tales of St Albans spilled from the tongue of a panic stricken Ned, then it really was no wonder. 

He thought of Ned, five years since that day when he had been told about the details of St Albans, Ned, the same petrified child of 1455 was now waging his own war and for what? To defeat an insane king with no glimpse of insanity? 

John had told him, they did not fight the king but rather his advisors, his councillors and those who wrongfully controlled his government. Those who should not control his government. Those who should be replaced by others more qualified. Like York. Was York any different to those fools who held that same control now? Hardly. The better question was, if the king was not insane why did he have need for these advisors. He was no longer an infant king. 

Johnny had explained, that's where the queen (he had said bitch) comes into it. She wants to be king in her own rights,something that women cannot do. Over ambitious women, that would be the damnation of the country. But then even she, the bitch, witch and she wolf of France had not seemed that bad when he met her in his captivity. She had seemed polite, at a stretch he would have said caring. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" John leaned forward, a smile softening hardened features back to their handsome, carved glory. Thomas could not deny, his brother was truly a handsome man. Why Isobel was so besotted with him he did not wonder. 

"Just, Johnny I don't understand why we are in all of this. Why can't we just end this war?" 

John sighed shaking his head. "Thomas you don't need to wonder about such things-"

"I don't mind-"

"Well I do. You're not to question. It is what it is and it is above you. Beyond your control. Begin a mine and Edward's and even Warwick's. It is York's choice, Somerset, York's and the queens. I know during our time at Chester you began to see as she wanted you to. She does that, engaging in witchcraft to control your mind. You are vulnerable to it. Women's ways."

"Its not that!" His words were cut off by the sounds of trumpets in the not too far distance. "They're here?" 

"Here's to freedom." John rose, ready to join the battle at any time. As it happened there would be no need. The battle lasted but half an hour before in the mist of victory the York Lord's fell before their king and swore fealty. All the while John and Thomas sat in interested silence before the tent was opened. 

"Johnny? Tom?" Both men jumped to their feet, Tom greeted his cousin with a running embrace. 

"Edward! Jesu, it has been too long!" 

"Indeed it has cousin." John was fascinated as their cousin hugged young Thomas back. How could they be so informal. For once he thanked the pain as he paused, watching as his company left. To see Edward coated head to toe in sparkling New armour gave him chance to think. How hard it was to believe that this boy would not be one of this kingdoms great names.

Perhaps he would, there is still time.


	4. Chapter 4

"Johnny,  what happened whilst you were..." The young man stopped his words, as though it were a crime to ask about the months past. "I only ask because Tom does seem so disturbed in weeks late, and if there is aught I can do for him I should be aware think you not?"

John Neville clicked his tongue and laughed at the mans obvious nerves. Shifting his weight to the leg which could take it before he stood, his figure unfolding from the plush cushioned window seat. "Sir Robert, when you resume my brothers education you do well to forget our time at Chester. The wound will scar if you pick it. Which would not be desirable. We do not want my brother scarred do we?" The man shook his head. "To answer in short, Thomas was traumatised, enough to reckon Lancaster mayhap not be so bad." It was Johns' turn to shake his head.

"It has not occurred to you my lord?' Sir Robert dared push it as they walked through the desolated halls of Westminster. Every noble in the realm, bar the obvious exceptions of John and Thomas Neville were present in the great hall. Except the king of course. All knew that Henry would be bird watching through the rainbow tint of his rain coated glass windows.

The reason why: The Duke of York had arrived in London that  morning bringing with him much commotion, and all were eager to hear gossip of his spectacular arrival. Sir Robert had seen it, had known well that John had seen it also, with pure outrage in his usually calm and glittering brown eyes. When Rutland had marched with an upturned sword before his father - the sign of royalty, of power and reminiscent of days old when Edward the confessor sat upon the golden throne - it had been obvious to all that the kingdom was on the brink of war, what was not apparent was who would take what side in the oncoming struggle.

York or Lancaster was the question on the lips of every man in England.

That was the reason for Roberts clear breech if protocol, which he recognised now as Johns' cool eyes bore into him.

"Have care Sir Robert that I do not become inclined to make enemies of you." His tone was icy, vacant of the usual friendliness. Quite mercifully his threat ended as disorder stirred in the hall ahead. The doors were forced open, shouting greeted them before York entered the hall, followed closely by Warwick. Johnny needed no informant, he could recognise from here that his brother was fuming. John had heard nothing of what York had done in the hall to gain such obvious - and dangerous - Neville displeasure, but he knew well that Warwick was poorly equipped to take on a royal duke singlehanded.

Richard would be paddling like a puppy in too deep water. Half drowning as the weight of tide pulled him under. Later it would consume him. No, even the Neville's could not take the turbulent tide of legendary Plantagenet anger alone.

Half running, half limping John made his way through the growing crowd and to Warwick. His brother was but steps away before he walked into two familiar but ashen faces. "Ned, Edmund." The boys looked nervous to comment the least on their appearance. Ned was despairing, his usual casual calm was replaced by eyes wild with fear. Anger, contempt and condemnation sat in Rutland's eyes, emotions alien to the young and peaceful boy. Fires burned blazes in the young mans blue eyes as he looked to his brother, Edward visibly shuddered as he froze. So much had changed.

 Johnny rested a hand on Edmund's shoulder, soon shrugged off by a foreign child filled with heaps of hostility. Something had changed Rutland in Dublin, none could deny that. Johnny grasped his hand back as though the gesture had burned him, in truth he felt it had. Emotion welled, such a golden child lost to a man bitter with hatred was consuming. John  was fearful of the consequences.

 He looked to Edward who sighed and shrugged, leading his Neville cousin down a quiet part of the corridor, closing the doors behind him.

"You'll be eager for gossip I guess Johnny?" The Earl of March gave no chance for reply, strange tears were brimming in his eyes. Johnny thought knew better than to interrupt such heartfelt confession. "Then best you hear it from someone who does love him." Edward stopped as he heard his own voice project on the brink of sobs.

John slipped his arm around his young cousin, pulling him close with heartfelt affection. What had changed these boys so cruelly, whilst Edward had softened Edmund had hardened, unrecognisably so and it had torn their brotherly union in two. "Come on lad. What's happened between you and Edmund?"

"Pah, Johnny. God but Johnny how I wish it were Edmund. Papa has truly gone insane." Tears escaped their flesh barriers. Johns heart pounded as raised voices began to circulate from inside the room where York and Warwick nested.

"What has he done, Edward you must compose yourself enough to tell me at least. What has his grace done?"

"Signed our death warrants no less." He tried for a laugh, wiping tears on silk sleeves, a gesture Johnny naturally scolded him for, as he would scold little George. Edward naturally smiled, hugging his cousin in reflex. "He claimed his right to the throne. He wants Henry removing. He will accept nothing less and asked for vote of approval and instant recognition  of the act of accord."

"Thus you would be heir to the throne?" Edward offered a nervous nod, about to burst into tears again. "Dont cry! Dont! You must be strong on all appearances."  He sounded harsher than he intended, but here was a boy who could well be heir to the throne. Who well deserved it, ir would not do to have him appearing weak. At the same moment he knew well now why Warwick was so affected by York's actions. Success was smelling sweet on the horizon, but if they had failed, that would cry disaster. He had no choice but to assume that Yorks attempt at glory had been cut down before it began. He could hardly stomach the shame. "Jesus. He asked for votes, yay or neigh?"

"Twas voiced in silence." All knew that meant worse than no. Only the fool would think that  silence was a good sign.

"You said nothing? Be hopeful that should preserve you enough for accounts to be taken. Good lad, now come before you risk your fathers anger further." They entered the room to glares from its occupants. the new arrivals did nothing to settle the shouts.

"And you made a traitor of my son in Calais!" York shouted, stepping forward to grab his heirs doublet, instead grabbing John Neville. "Step aside sir! I will have words-"

"You will not lay hand upon him. Do I make myself clear my lord?" There was a tense moment before York backed away, turning rebound on Warwick.

"What were you doing in there?"

"No your grace, the question is, what were you doing?" Warwick lowered his voice, trying to maintain some civility.

"My father was claiming his right. And mine, and yours Edward. I thought you of all would be happy to have papa stand for what we deserve!" Edmund turned on his brother. John noticed brothers staring without recognition in their eyes. He could not decide who had changed the most.

"I said nothing Edmund. But I would have father express his claim sanely. Not have us all killed for open treason." York scoffed, rolling his eyes. "And you sir, you have poisoned Edmund with your ridiculous ambitions and it shall be the death of him, I congratulate you on that. I will not be present when you break ma meres heart with such news. I never thought you a fool father-"

"Hold your tongue!" York's face had reddened. Suddenly it seemed there was stifling hatred in the room, a war amongst kin. John sighed. He wanted escape, but now he was so very involved.

"No, the lad is right.   this can bring nothing good. You have declared war on Lancaster without the support of Neville or your own son." John spoke quietly, trying to be the voice of reason. His hand grabbed Edmunds arm and twisted as the boy sprang forward. "Dont be a fool Edmund, you were ever the smart one. You were not the warrior."

"He will do well enough now March betrays me and will not fight."

"He did not say that my lord but he chooses his battles as we rational men all do. Carefully." John looked on with precise eyes. Holding up a hand to Warwick as he tried to interrupt. "Now if you finish your argument let me talk for all of you. We are no abandoning York and we do support your claim your grace. We do not support your actions today. For they will have us all killed. As you have started the war we are as well to support you in finishing it. By The Lord dont I know some have already suffered for it." He took a suitable pause, momentarily victoring on the apologetic look York offered him, annoyed by his brothers sympathetic stance. The glance to his damaged leg he now tried desperately to hide. "Lancaster believes in guilt by association. For now we will keep peace until we can mobilise. York speak with King Henry and beg pardon for insanity." there was nervous laugh for irony. "Brother, March keep your positions, by all appearances you do not support todays actions. I know both would have had the vote suited you. Which I will not harass you for. Self preservation is natural. Remember your loyalties in the future. As for Edmund. He is too young for men to care and should be thankful for that. Now, to your duties."

John watched as reluctantly York and his brother shook hands and turned to the door, he was then quick to grab the two boys shoulders. "Edward, Edmund, you may not believe me. You need each other, for their are no stronger allies or more crippling enemies than brothers. Which do you two wish to be?"

He knee the answer before they both left the the room. A smile found his lips as he spotted their embrace. Of course, as he left the room he pretended he had not. They did not need their dignity harmed as well as their relationship.


	5. Chapter 5

January 1st, 1461  
London.

Isabel Ingoldesthorpe, wife of John Neville lay beside her husband laughing gaily as his hand moved quickly up and down her, tickling every inch of visible skin. "John, John!" She shrieked merrily, playfully slapping him with a pillow. 

"Heigh!" He laughed, smothering her lips with his own as he pulled her close, his hand slipping down her back gently, tenderly, as often it did before their love making sessions where so often she found herself to be contently with child after. She smiled up at him, her hand resting on his chest, fingers lightly toying with wisps of dark hair. "The lady be a temptress, assaulting her husband so. Such behaviour cannot be ignored." He winked, attacking her neck with light kisses. "Witch, you have drawn me to this bed this morning."

She giggled, pushing him away feigning offence. "Impossible my lord, how can you accuse me of such! You found my bed easily last night husband, you needed no guidance from me if I recall, let alone coaxing." She giggled. "No, twas you who bewitched me. And then you mutter of the wantonness of women. What about your wantonness John Neville? Tis infectious." 

"Curse you woman." He laughed again, his hands pushing her shoulders so she lay on her back, gazing lovingly into his eyes as she wrapped her hands around his waist. "Curse your words for they are right." He kissed her, hands adventuring over her body before it all stopped. The door flew open without a word of warning, Warwick charged in, walking past the bed as though he did not see them. Isabel screamed, pulling the coverlets over her as John rolled away. "Dick, with respect-"

"Johnny, oh Johnny." A change came over Warwick as he walked over to the bed, sitting on it. He paid Isabel no attention as she pulled herself from the bed, wrapping her night gown around herself tying the sash. She reached over and kissed her husband's cheek, her hand lingering on his as he pulled the coverlets around himself. 

"I will leave you both to it." She whispered the words in his ear before she kissed him once more and started toward the door. 

He didn't hear her, he shuffled closer to his brother as he noticed the change in his expression. The confident look drained away to being one of controlless depression. Warwick crumbled, tears flowing from his eyes as he dropped the parchment onto the bed. "Read it Johnny... i cant." His voice was weak, cracking from supressed tears. 

My Lord. 

Tis with greatest of regrets I write to you to inform you of the saddest loss. His Lordship the Earl of Salisbury did lose his life in the hands of his Grace the Duke of Somerset soon after battle had been lost at Wakefield. There were great losses, among the dead are named the Duke of York, the Earl of Rutland and SIr Thomas Neville, your brother. 

It is with the deepest mourning I write this 

John's hands began shaking uncontrollably, it had all happened so quickly. His father was gone, his brother. Thomas, young Thomas cut down long before his prime. At just eighteen years old, no older than Ned, Ned who was no alone and fatherless somewhere in Shropshire, the weight of the world preparing to fall upon his shoulders. Would he have heard about Rutland's death? How would he react to this devastating news? 

His mind returned to Thomas, Thomas the boy who had been his companion, his sanity during those long nights in Chester. The boy who saved his life when he had been injured, unable to look after himself. 

He hadn't noticed the feeling of guilt creeping up on him, he hadn't spotted the sudden knowledge that his life as he knew it was officially over, his father was dead. His father. He looked to Warwick, hoping that in this all so difficult of situations his older brother, his only influence left would somehow remain strong through the devastation. Warwick's face was crushing, the lines of mourning were already paying their dearest price upon him. He seemed to have aged ten years in a minute. "Dick, oh dear God."

"We need to write to his grace of York."

"You think he will not have heard?"

"Of course he has heard Johnny, he should not be out their alone, one dear and innocent target. He stands no chance out there alone."

"Richard, he will be fine, you and I both know it. I do prey for it at least."

"And how many times have your prayers been answered Johnny? We pray each day and what good does that seem to do us? Tis habit more than communication you fool."

"You do not mean that, should prey He forgives you for your blasphemy. You are upset, grieving-"

"Angry, Johnny I am angry and you should be too. That He which you do speak so fondly of gave that bitch victory and with it he gave her the lives of two young men we will never get back, the life of innocents in case you do forget. Not to mention our good lord father and his grace the late duke of york leaving our aunt a widow. Do not speak to me of blasphemy."

Johnny shuddered, moving away from the situation. "What are we to do?"

"Call men, they have got themselves a war."

Johnny watched as Warwick turned to leave, he remembered a time not long ago when his father had said words so very similar. He remembered where that had got him.


	6. Chapter 6

“Johnny how goes things?” Warwick had moved from his defensive position in the centre of his army. The wind was growing stronger, blowing dark hair into his face, his cloak was wrapped around the opposite shoulder as woollen folds defied control. John Neville looked to his brother and simply nodded. Words were still not needed between them, since the death of their father and Thomas at Wakefield, they had said little. “Hold the line, she will come soon and she will bring fury with her like the forces of hell. Do not weaver I pray you.”

“I will try brother, truly I can do no more than try.” John pulled down the visor of his helmet, encasing his head in reinforced steel. The conversation, though brief, was over. Warwick’s horse retreated through the crowd. John knew his men were restless, they shivered in cold and hopped from leg to leg. Their hands were tight around deadly weapons, although their muscles quivered they tried to hide it. Fools all, did they truly believe he would be so rash as to punish them for their fear? 

Only an idiot would be fearless now; for there was nothing like defeat to make a man rage enough to win. The same could surely be said for a woman, particularly for Marguerite of Anjou. She was renounced for naught if not for her anger.   
She was the complete opposite from her husband the queen. Poor Henry was a placid fool who would rather settle arguments in redundant prayers to a merciless God than take a sword to a man, no matter the evil he did. That was why they still stood alive, he and Warwick. For had the She Wolf had her way, they would both have their heads adorning Micklegate. A pleasant thought for an already churning stomach. 

He held back from vomiting only for his men, for he could not abandon his position now. Not when she would be here at any moment.   
The constantly reminding thoughts of the ruthless queen brought to Johnny’s mind thoughts of the witless king. Lord how he hoped Henry was safe, for they would be doomed if he were not. He feared above all that henry should die within the fight, without the old man even drawing a blade. He was far to set on peace for that. Warwick had laughed at the fact, Henry was never without a sword despite his love of peace. It was for that very love of peace that Warwick had refused to take his monarchs sword.   
Johnny looked to his right, somewhere there was his King. Hiding behind the sturdy walls, likely still sat beneath the tree where they had left him. Likely still praying to his God or talking to the birds. Who knew what the senseless fool was doing but God bless him anyway. Father save him Johnny thought, for no one else can  
How ironic it all was, preparing for battle and the country in open rivalry with men preparing to do mass slaughter and wind so bitter it froze the bones. Yet the person they all claimed to be fighting for had no desire at all to see the fighting. John Neville laughed, yes, it was truly ironic. How they had let it go this far without a simple thought for Henry’s royal disapproval. Although he rarely voiced it, for he rarely voiced anything, it was obvious from his eyes that he was despairing. And who could do more but wonder if that despairing was indeed the very reason for the king’s silence?  
For a moment he swore that he shared his kings madness, for in that moment he thought that he heard singing. A beautiful male voiced singing in tune with the birds. But perhaps that was his mind playing tricks for it was at that moment that the battle cry began.   
Lancastrian men began to fall as Yorkist archers opened their fire. Norfolk had given the order and Johnny watched his brother observed with his cool, cocky control. It was as though they were already the victors, Richard’s shatterproof confidence. It was almost admirable if it wasn’t so foolish. For although morale among Warwick’s own troops was high, Johnny knew well that his men were beginning to feel the strain. He could not blame them for mimicking his own feelings, he could not help but recognise his own shortcomings as a military leader.

How he remembered the days not long past when his father had told him that it was he, not Warwick, who would make the better commander. How those words then had made him proud, now they only served as a constant enforcer of his failures. How could he hope for victory when he could not muster strength to stomach the oncoming slaughter. 

However much Dick and Ned might forger the blunder at Wakefield, however they might deny what it meant, he would not. He would never forget that day in all of his life. He would never find it in his heart to forgive it either. 

Inwardly he cursed the queen for her decisions, cursed Trollope for his deflection to the Lancastrian forces at Ludlow last year. That same traitor now was behind rained on by arrows as he manoeuvred his men through the town. The streets already ran with blood, the citizens would that evening speak of times reminiscent of 1455 when these wars had first begun.

Johnny did not care for that idle gossip yet, Lancastrian men retreated. Warwick thought he had gained victory with ease, so soon. Norfolk followed as Warwick set the lead, marching men through the city with an ominous ease. An ease he apparently had not noticed. Johnny had been about to move when he had cursed under his breath. A river of Lancastrians charged now, free from the fire of exhausted arrows, now toward Warwick and Norfolk, engulfing their forces. Fighting ensued before him. 

John had been about to move, about to run to his brother’s aid when his own troop was ambushed. The Lancastrian forces had been hiding, taking shelter in the defence Warwick had hoped would be their gain. It would be their demise. Johnny sword as his flank was swarmed with a sea of royal livery. Men battled bravely, swords sparking off each other before axes and staffs impacted. Johnny himself was in the thick of it, he did not look to search for his brother. One man followed the other in an endless sea of charges. His men were dying in numbers double those of the enemy. 

Margeurites forces were superior, beating them into submission. He refused to submit, refused surrender. Even as men circled behind them as the queen brought more men into play like a perfectly considered round of chess. Johnny’s pieces three by three were wiped from the board. Already his more valuable pieces were sacrificed and he was left with only pawns.   
No time came to consider how this was happening, or even what was happening. They acted so quickly as, pressured form all signs, the Yorkist troops were forced forward until they tumbled down the dyke’s edge, either to their deaths or into Lancastrian captivity and almost certain execution.   
Resistance was futile, certain death awaited any Yorkist who remained within St Albans. John felt pain like fire in his leg as his left side met air whilst his right fought desperately for balance. He tumbled quickly down the ditch, stopped from falling into the pit of spikes and bodies by familiar hands. 

A strong grip pulled him back, he slammed hard against the floor, aching though mercifully alive. For how much longer he did not know, above he heard the sounds of retreat as his hands were bound. His head was heavy, the world around him spun. He would not be fooled as last time, this was not to be a repeat of Blore Heath. He told himself those words, countless times. He muttered aloud, aimlessly, “Richard, brother.” From seeing the blurring face of the man who had caught him, his eyes had stayed closed. His breath was raspy, fast but thankfully flowing. 

It took a while before a voice gave him some release from the torment he had made his own. “He will not come for you my lord, he was defeated and fled not ten minutes since. He will not live the week I assure you.” The words were harsh, the gestures contradictory as whoever was his captor pressed the lip of a bottle to John’s own lips. He gulped down wine with speed which surprised even himself. His captor offered a startled laugh. “Enough.” He pulled it back sharply, John gasped, crying out as he was forced onto his feet and pulled sharply forward up hill. 

The light hurt as he reached the top of the hill, his bindings tied to rope. “Can he walk?” The female voice grew closer. He did not need to look to know, he had heard her voice many times before. Margeurite of Anjou chuckled as she reached him. “You find yourself in my company once again my lord, and I assure, I am as happy as you to find you in my presence.” She paused looking to Trollope as the man approached late. “Warwick has fled?” John couldn’t help but snarl as the turncoat nodded, pushing John to his knees in response to his disrespect. Margeurite’s hand brought stinging instnalty to his cheek as she slapped him. “Somerset, why is he not dead with the rest of his kind? Sir Andrew, do what the duke clearly cannot. I want this foul creatures head with his fathers and York’s before Friday.”

“Yes Your Grace.” John tensed as Trollope’s hands forced his head to bend as with his free hand he drew his sword. John prepared for the blow, muttering the only prayer he knew by heart. It did not flow easily from his tongue, he was not a man of the church, but how now he envied George.   
“No Your Grace.” Somerset’s voice warned him, he thanked God before Trollope’s hand was forced away. Margeurite spun, he saw the flick of her dress. 

“Pardon?”

“No, for if John Neville dies, Warwick will surely kill Edmund my brother.”

“He is Warwick’s prisoner?”

“Yes. And so John shall come with me to York. There I shall keep him alive until my brother is released or Warwick dead.”

“If Edmund is dead already?”

Somerset’s voice turned suddenly cold, Johnny choked as he felt the duke’s hand pull sharply at the back of his shirt. “Then I shall exact the same from our prisoner and Warwick shall know pain.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long to update. Academia just bogs one down so much they do not know what to do with themselves. Anyway, here is one chapter. I will write when I can guys, please have patience with me.

This time there was no one there when he awoke, head pounding and skin cold to touch. It had been that way for several weeks. Since his capture at St Albans, from when he had been forced to march north hurriedly to York. Then they had tossed him into a cell with little a care. Times like now, as he sat shivering beneath the itchy thin layer of a tattered woollen blanket, John Neville could not help but think of Thomas. The brother so mercilessly taken from him, cut down in the prime of his youth by the very men who held him here – by the men whom in acts of equal mercilessness kept him alive. 

And they called it mercy, they dared to call themselves heroes. They were little more than villains made bitter by cowardice, plump by the greed bred into them and untouchable by the armour of wrought iron. 

That reminded him of the painful links which made moving sheer torture. The pain from his struggle upon the battlefield had not declined, though the fading bruises offered less to show. For that at least he was thankful. Every day he looked to see the purple blotches turning grey, they yellow, and each day he thanked Jesus for hasty recovery. For giving him the strength, the will to continue not only his fight but the war. To avenge Thomas and his father. 

He had not noticed, had barely heard as the door opened with barely a sound. Each day worked like clockwork, unworthy of attention. Both morning and evening someone would enter, the same man usually, large in size and mean of face, to offer him food and wine. Once a week the barber would come to offer him relief from the hair which invaded his face like it would make war upon him. John wondered briefly which of these men would today be paying him a visit, or would it be the replacement guard? His second gaoler? A man more approachable than the normal one. A man he had once or twice exchanged words with now. A scholar from what he knew. 

John smiled, he rarely spent his days reading. George, his brother, was an avid reader. Keen on scholarly works, a benefactor of Oxford University. For the countless days he had been kept here, without respite of the walls he often stared at, the scholar he had become to know as Peter had defied the laws set by the men above and smuggled books into the cell, if only for John's amusement and pleasure. He could think of nothing sinister behind the gesture of apparent kindness.   
It was one of those such books he now looked for, his hand rummaging under the pillows, or so his captors had lack enough in education or taste to call them. 

That was when he remembered, or rather realised, his visitor. The voice registered in his mind before the words could be processed by his numb and throbbing brain. His hands stopped their adventure, he froze – turning slowly toward the door where he knew the man stood. “John Neville, a frightfully awful sight to see you here. I cannot tell you which is worse in truth, the fact that you are here or that you are still alive.” John said nothing in response, felt no need to offer the man a more boosted ego by dignifying his arrogance with response. Instead his eyes bore into his visitor with hatred akin to little else he had felt before. 

The man chuckled in response, amused by the icy glare his prisoner offered. He said nothing for a moment, adventuring further into the cell, placing bread and wine onto the rickety table, ensuring they were just out of reach. “I see unfortunately the guards are treating you well.” The visitor held up a hand, cutting John off before he even spoke. “No, no, let me guess. For is that not part of the fun? Somerset is scared that his brother, Edmund, will be dead before the month is out should aught terrible befall you. A pity really, I would so love to do the honours.” He pulled a singular finger across his throat and smiled. 

“And I the same for you Henry.” John's tone was ice, as cold as he could have ever allowed it to be. Henry Percy was the most arrogant, self assured youth a Neville could encounter. It simply was not right than any boy of fifteen should be permitted to display such assurance. Lancastrian's to the last, the Percy's and Neville's had long since had bad blood between their kindred. Hatred fuelled the ruling of the north, a fierce competition of power and glory. The stakes were always high. 

“Now, Sir John, I mean all respect to you, but you are hardly in a position to threaten me. As Tom was not if I recall.” Despite himself John took the bate, knowing well Percy had as much to do with Thomas's bloody end as did he. It was the relish in the youth's voice which coaxed a reaction. One which was limited as the chains suddenly pulled taught. John whimpered as he slammed back onto the bed to the music of Henry's laughter. “That was funny, though you are right, I should not jest. The death of a child is always tragic, even it was a Neville. Thomas was not you, there would be no taste as sweet as your blood John Neville.” 

“You shall bleed before I.”

“We shall just have to see about that, it is doubtful though.” Henry sounded smug, a smile breaking upon his lips as he pouted wine, sipping painfully slow from the goblet. “I wonder how long before it will be before his grace of Somerset has his brother free and you fall at my mercy.”

“Never, for I hate to burst your ego so swiftly, but if Somerset intends to kill me it will be him and not you who gets such a pleasure as you believe it to be. As even a Beaufort is more dignified than you I doubt he will relish in it.”

“A wasted opportunity.”

“I am glad you think my death would be so rewarding, at least I have bought a place in your obviously costly and valuable thoughts.” His voice was sarcastic, his eyes never broke their contact with Henry's.

“You wound me.” 

“I wish I did.” 

“Now John, you surely do not mean that.”

“Did you come here with a purpose? Or do you, as always waste everyone's time?”

“You have nothing but time and are you not wishing decent company?”

“If I willed decent company, I would have better and more worthy discourse with a rat.” 

“If you are to be so rude, then I am to tell you that his grace of Somerset will meet with your brother and the Earl of March to do battle tomorrow. They will meet not far from Saxton, at Towton, do you know it?”

“I know of it.” 

Henry smiled as he turned toward the door, opening it as he paused. “You should prepare John Neville. I hope you spend your final hours wisely.”


	8. Chapter 8

His bones ached, his muscles screamed in agony and his eyes were sore from blown up dust on the road. It had been a long journey, and his horse was trudging, more exhausted than he wished it to be. John pulled his cloak around himself, trying hard as always not to think too deeply. Whenever he thought, his mind tended to wander away to those days four years in his past when his captors had treated him poorly. When he had been tucked away in a dark corner of York Castle and left to die – almost anyway. 

There had been men there, and women too, who had wished him dead. Only Somerset, of all people a Beaufort, who had wanted him alive. That was unsurprisingly not for reasons of a deep rooted affection of any form. Rather for the preservation of his younger brother. Henry Beaufort was a lot of things, but he was not a fool. And how well he had proven that. John Neville could not recall without some degree of bitterness what had happened just two years after Ned's shattering victory at Towton. 

That had been undeniable, that Ned and John's own brother had won an unquestionable victory over Lancaster which had seen Edward formerly crowned. Of course, he had missed it all. John cursed that, his capture at St Albans had meant he had been absent from Ned's makeshift crowning when just days after their defeat, Warwick had marched their young cousin to London. Ned had reportedly still been high from the buzz of his first true victory, where he had taken command at Mortimers Cross and slaughtered his enemy almost as thoroughly as he had at Towton. 

John attracted looks from his men as he allowed himself a chuckle. It was truly queer, how he could so regret missing the bloodbaths at Towton and Ferrybridge, how he could wish to have been present when 20,000 bodies lay coating a field with blood he did not know. Someone would have called him strange for that. Ned had always looked up to him for that and now it was the same for his younger brother Richard, now present at Middleham where Johnny as often as not resided, when wanting a break from his true home at Sheriff Hutton. He had been chuckling however at the fact that Ned's second victory had been the cause of Johnny's own release, the removal of a death warrant from his head. 

Somerset had run away after the battle, surviving the battle with his life and nothing more – for all knew his dignity was indeed tattered after that dreadful event. 

But then he had been found, dragged into Ned's presence, and that itself had been a performance given that the young king had been plagued with measles and shut away for nigh on half a month. Somerset had shown his intelligence once again, rolling with the times. No man who had stood in that room had expected what had happened, Warwick had been right wroth, after spending the time to catch the treacherous leech, all had known he had wanted the death penalty brought down brutally upon Somerset's shoulders – none doubted much that he had wanted to be the one who exacted it. 

Ned had done the unexpected though, which was as much his thing as cunning was Somerset's. The king had offered Somerset forgiveness, should he only embrace Yorkist rule and relinquish his claim that Lancaster, and only Lancaster, could rule over England. Of course he had, for he would have been witless to refuse such an offer and all had known it, even then as they stood in gobsmacked awe. None had said a word but most had seethed. Only Johnny had found it in himself to think of a worthy explanation for the kings apparent madness. Even dear Will Hastings, the kings dearest friend and chamberlain had failed to come out with any words to justify it. 

It had clearly all been a clouding of the mind, for when someone so young finds himself so close to death with no way to help himself – and no way to put the blame upon himself – only to recover like a miracle made only by God, he is sure to be merciful and grant the same to others. 

Unfortunately it had been Somerset to whom he had been so generous, and unfortunately it had been that same Somerset who had made a fool of him. Much to Ned's displeasure and no one's surprise. 

“I want him brought to me Johnny, brought to me alive. And when I have him, by God Johnny.” He had said no more. He had not needed to. John had simply nodded and agreed that he would indeed bring Somerset to the king. And now it was a matter of time, for none knew for certain where the Lancastrian Duke had fled to. All could only hope that he had not joined forces with his brother and their Lancastrain Queen. They were in Scotland, most likely with the mad fool Henry, and there they were all likely planning their happy reunion with the English throne. 

One reunion every Yorkist wanted to see ended before it even begun. 

No, John knew well as he rode down that dusty road, gripping his reins tight in fine gloved hands that he had to keep his mind clear, and to remain focused at the task in hand. He had been charged with the great honour of heading north to the Scots border and negotiating – hopefully agreeing upon peace with Scotland. Then the bitch of Anjou and her brat would be sent forthwith to London and soon after England could wash her hands of them. 

No one questioned what Ned had planned for them any more. It was at least somewhat self explanatory. 

His men looked tired he observed, almost as tired as his staggering horse. For just a moment John stopped to consider it, he would give his men a break, have them take pause from their hike through Northumberland and take some well needed rest. His heart ruled over his brain, his instinct victored over obvious logic. He had not been made Marquess of Montagu for no reason. It had been a battle reward, for his courage and his ability to lead. 

That ability was one he was now putting into practise. A man could be only as good as his leader, and he knew well why his men were now lagging. He had been slumped on his mount as though about to doze into sleep – and he had he knew. That would have been a fatal mistake. It was not two miles down the track when his horse had stopped of its own accord. Nothing he could do would persuade it to move, that was until it reared and fear flared its nostrils. The charger stomped, ready to run, it had only been instinct once more than saved him. John jumped from the animal before it set about it's charge and soon Lancastrian men ran from their shelter, the Percy banner soon towering above all. 

John smirked knowingly, yes it was about time, he would face the Percy's in their own terrain. This was Northumberland, and he would defeat this counties own Earl upon his own soil.


	9. Chapter 9

Middleham Castle.   
  
It should have been simple, there should have been no questions asked, Somerset should not have expected mercy, but he had. Unjustified though he plea may have been, those words would not stop ringing in Johnny's head. Two weeks had passed since the event at Hexham where John had been responsible for severing the Duke's own head. For many years he had thought of nothing else, he had lingered silently on Ned's madness to pardon the man. Each inch of his being had longed to to end Somerset, now he had there was a sudden loss, a feeling of emptiness, of purposeless and surprisingly, of guilt.   
  
Yes, for the first time in as long as he could remember, guilt was powering every thundering beat of John's heart. Guilt so rich and raw that it ached. That was what he blamed for his currently dwindling patience.   
  
John Neville had been sat quietly minding his own business at the trestle table in Middleham's great hall for almost three hours. The first had been fine, he had been permitted the time and privacy to thinking of what he wanted to. Polite servants had been too respectful to interrupt him, or perhaps they had sensed his ill mood and deemed it inappropriate to talk. Either way he cared little, for what was irking him now was the ongoing and noisy presence of his brother.   
  
When Warwick was unhappy, his rants were both endless and intolerable. His anger was something all knew to avoid. Even Edward was cautious before he decided to risk the displeasure of his cousin. For Warwick was by all means a serpent. There was only one mood state worse than unhappiness in Warwick, that was when he was happy, or indeed when he was ecstatic – as currently he seemed to be.   
  
It was passing strange thought Johnny, how similar were his brothers moods. For the only difference between Warwick's endless rants were that now, instead of threatening hell upon Ned, or hell upon Somerset, he was endlessly glorifying in his own idollic achievements. Idollic so much as they were unreal. That was what at that very moment was wrenching every scrap of patience from deep within John's guts and feeding it to the dogs lounging at his feet.

 

“We did it brother, we actually did it! Somerset is dead and Ned will be right happy with us for it. Think of the rewards brother think of the rewards.”   
  
No words were able to leave John's mouth. Although his fists clenched he did not move, he followed strictly the hardest lesson his father had ever taught him. A lesson which as the second born son to a noble family, he had no choice but to learn. He had spent agonising years in his brother's shadow learning, practising and perfecting the art of silence. By now he deemed himself an expert, and all the wiser for the teachings that many of his kindred. For he had time, unlike the others, to reflect on what he thought. He was not a foolish man, his tongue did not need to outrun his brain.

 

Nothing he knew could stop the internal dialogue from it's treason. Today however he lacked energy or to stop it. Today he was ready to afford himself the time to consider life, to consider how Warwick was forgiven all, it had ever been the way.   
  
In honesty his brother's words had angered him, fury was burning in the pit of his stomach, caged only with heavy restraint designed to suppress but not control it. He had long lived with the realisation that Warwick was right, that he indeed would reap the most of Ned's rewards when they did come for the defeat of Somerset. Johnny would receive a mere passing nod of acknowledgement before his royal cousin offered Warwick a hearty back-clap of lands and funds.

 

His ears pricked long enough for Warwick's words to fill them once more. “We will be loved for this, we will be remembered.”   
  
_We had not a bloody thing to do with it._

 

He said nothing, feigning ignorance to his brother. Other thoughts were already plaguing his mind. Regret's filling his heart, and this time not over a dead Duke. When John had returned from Northumberland he had not been alone, with him he had brought among the flanks of his army a valuable treasure. A treasure he had wished to dispose of, but one he had not – if only for reasons of self-preservation. For whilst the open warrant had been there for Somerset's undoing, Henry Percy had been a different story.   
  
Percy was a nuisance to Edward, but unfortunately no more. Ned would never had given permission for harm to befall the good for nothing Earl of the north. Not if the king was so inclined to forgiveness as he had been toward Somerset.   
  
It did not settle well with John that a Percy should be allowed to not only survive, but to prosper on Neville hospitality. Although technically a captive, and not a welcome one, Warwick had been forced to house Percy at Middleham until such a date when Edward would be able to make it north from London to escort their prisoner south to the Tower. That everyone knew could take months.

 

Until such a time when Edward saw it suitable to trouble himself enough to bring his royal backside north, Percy would be living in accommodations befitting of his plush status. Prisoner or no, English law would not allow him to be thrown into a damp room with no window and fed the scraps deemed unsuitable even for rats. Instead Warwick had seen him comfortably housed in a room finer than the one Johnny slept in, eating food second only the Warwick himself.

 

Still Johnny did was was expected of him, playing the role of the faithful servant. Allowing family loyalty to trump personal vendetta.   
  


John's eyes moved in response to the sudden movement at the end of the table. Two boys had been playing chess, for how long he could not say. Now the pieces were over the floor, with the older, dark haired boy offering a look of displeasure, sinisterly sincere for a youth of but 12. The young Duke of Gloucester said nothing. That amused John, for even as Warwick ranted about his own accomplishment, something which irked two small children as much as John himself, the boy of high status said nothing.   
  
Richard Plantagenet, a younger and more serious version of his father, had always shown some reflection of Johnny. In some way's he thought looking at the boy was like looking into the past. So many things were the same. Being the figure forever shadowed by the older brothers' glory. Only Richard had an endless string of older siblings. The boy was serious, study focused and pious as a monk. On that he was much like old King Henry, born to the wrong set of responsibilities. He thought then of George, his own brother, younger by only one year and already Archbishop of York. A status he neither revelled in nor valued. How queer it was that here sat a boy in his presence who would have been honoured to have been dealt the title George Neville cared little for.   
  
Yet priests could not be soldiers Johnny recalled. George had sacrificed violence for a life within the church, he had deflected honour for celibacy. That was not something Richard would consider. And all the better for it if his progress in the ring was ought to go by.   
  
John had indeed taken the time from his day to watch Dickon sparring with sword in the ring. His skill was rivalled by none except the king himself. Warwick would be hard pressed he knew to challenge the youth and leave with all his limbs. Of course, it was no secret that Warwick was far from the best warrior in the Neville clan. That was the title held by John himself. Why he did not know, although his skill in battle was unrivalled, and his control of men was excellent, his main skill men had observed was his uncanny ability to find himself in enemy hands.   
  
Accompanying that was his skill also to return alive. A skill which others were lacking.

 

“Do you not think so Dickon?” Johnny returned to the conversation, looking back to the boy to see anger in his eyes. The child held his tongue. “Come on, Ned will reward us all!”  
  
“It is illegal to talk on behalf of the king as you well know sir.” The younger boy had spoken. Francis Lovell, the small and fair boy who often wandered Middleham alone had done the unthinkable. Richard's eyes had averted to the floor and Warwick's skin was turning red.   
  
“Dick, leave him.” It was finally time to talk, rising to his feet John took hold of Warwick's arm before he struck the child sat before him. “He is right, Dickon should not answer on King Edward's behalf. Would you have him answer to us what should happen to Percy?”  
  
“No, I would be as well off handing the decision to you, and we all know where that would lead.”  
  
“Henry Percy straight to the hands of his maker, and rightly so. Would you not do the same to Henry should you get your filthy hands upon him brother.” Warwick fell silent, eyes burning passionate fires before he turned swiftly and left. The room was momentarily filled with silence that echoed and tingled the senses. Two boys looked to him for influence, for direction. He sighed and kneeled, lifting pieces from the floor, placing them on the table. “Sometimes lads, you must realise, sometimes my brother needs to see sense.”  
  
“That talk of 'we'.” Gloucester spoke, rearranging his pieces as he did. “It irked me for sure. You were in Northumberland whilst Warwick was here, warming his feet by the fire. I wanted to speak up, truly I did.”  
  
“Don't I know it. But it is as well you held your tongue. As for you Master Lovell know well that you have more than the next man to lose. The son of Lancastrians' and ward of a Neville. Know, should you fall enemy to my brother you do also to the king. Then where would your mother and wealth be eh? I wont always be here to save you. Sometime you will need to learn to swim, dont over rely on your ability to float.” He said nothing more as he turned, heading swiftly to the door in time enough to hear the royal entrance into the bailey.  


	10. Chapter 10

"Your majesty, how pleasant to see you." Warwick greeted his cousin with a loud greeting and over eager embrace. Edward shied away as the earl pulled him closer, visibly crushing the kings frame in his welcome. John remained quiet, peaceful as he leaned against the wall, awaiting his turn to greet the king more humbly than Warwick would greet a fly. A silent bow was planned before he would follow the progress into the castle. It was how it ever was, ever would and should be. Except today it was not.

No sooner had Edward broken free of Warwick's arms than he was walking speedily toward John, who stepped away from the walls meeting the king as he walked. "Cousin, you look well."

"As does your Grace."

"Do not flatter me Johnny, I need it not. I daresay I look well for a man forced to ride north from London. Five days solid and my arse aches for it. I shan't be sitting for a week." He laughed eventually, clapping his cousins back with a strong hand and wide smile. "But enough of that, tell me how was Hexham, right damn shame I couldn't be there!"

They walked into the castle, discussing the battle at length. Who had died, what had befallen Somerset, how Percy had been caught, how John had won victory over the Lancastrian troops. All the way to the solar they talked, up until that moment when Warwick, sprawled in a chair finally interrupted. "Your grace did not miss much from what I hear of Hexham, it was merely a skirmish my brother exaggerates. Somerset was his only trophy."

"Indeed Warwick,even if that were so he has one more trophy than ever you will. Two by the end this night."

"two your grace?" john's confusion was clear on his face. Amusement twisted the kings lips.

"Fear not dear cousin, I will not hurt you. By the nights end you will be John Neville, Earl of Northumberland."

"Percys title?" Warwicks head shot up, eyes ablaze with angry fire.

"If that passes as okay by you my lord." It didn't take a fool to detect the dwindling patience in Edwards voice. Warwick stood quickly, approaching the king as if he could tower over the giant. Warwick needed no confidence boost, especially not in his own castle.

"Henry Percy is not even dead and you hand away what is his as though it were yours to give."

"Yes Warwick, in case you have failed to notice I am king, and although I do not please to lug that weighty golden hat around with me wherever you bid I go does not make it any less so. Do not forget that three years since you saw me crowned in Westminster, and as you claim it is your doing I doubt you would ever forget it. I as a consequence of my majestic responsibility can give whatever I damned well please to whom I damned well please am I clear?" When Warwick didn't answer, Edward continued as his audience stood baffled. "Both you and that whoreson Henry Percy can say what you please and expect to hang for it. So as the title is naught to you my lord I doubt you mind your brothers raise in status. He can be Earl of Northumberland or Earl of Warwick, either way I am pleased." Edward added a glittering smile to end of his statement, one which John could not resist but to splutter with laughter. Biting his tongue only as Warwick shot him a look of ice daggers. "I think I have heard enough up here, Johnny I am to see Dickon, for I hear he is learning well, why not go and tell Northumberland the news yourself, whist you prepare him for a journey south to London and the tower. And deliver him my greetings and well wishes."

"Well wishes your grace?" Edward said nothing as he turned to the large doors, leaving the solar with Warwick at his tail like a loyal bitch to her master. John couldn't help but chuckle as he turned out of the solar and left toward Percy's accommodations, knocking twice before entering. "My lord Percy, I hope you are well."

"What do you want Neville?"

"Its my lord Northumberland to you now Henry. The king made it so not ten minutes past. But of course he intended to tell you that on our journey to London. Not before I had my fun in delighting you with the news of course."

"the York brat has no right to-"

"I wont hear treason spoken here. Where my father walked as did my mother and I took my first breaths here I'm this room so sir keep your foul words to yourself and choke on them."

"you make me question why you haven't choked me yourself, you have been given the opportunity. God knows you have the spite to"

"Because loyalty means more. Ned does not want you dead, he shows you mercy you do not deserve."

"He shows me mercy so that he might befriend me when you betray him."

"hold your tongue, go, out that door. You there, escort our guest to the stables and stay with him till his grace king Edward is ready to ride south."

"South?" Taking his predicament seriously, Percy suddenly seemed scared.

"Yes." A small smiley etched on Johns lips as his back remained to Henry. He turned quickly. "To London my lord."

"London? Whatever does his grace want from me in London?"

"If you need ask then perhaps I should keep it a surprise. I dont want to give you reason to run."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken so long to update this! I've been neglecting it. But my degree is done. And as its my birthday tomorrow, felt . Like writing

Riding south had been tiresome. John Neville sighed, looking through the rose tint windows of Westminster in the rain. They had made it through the mighty castles gates and into its secure walls minutes before the down pour. Johnny could not deny, even in his broken state of complete exhaustion, that this situation seemed strange. Why had Edward insisted he rode south four days ahead of Warwick? Unless Warwick's plans had changed, and he had been ordered north?

No matter, John knew he would not be forgiven. Warwick was not one to take being shunned lightly. He would be displeased with Edwards decision to take Johnny and not himself to London. Warwick's ego had taken a bruising, John knew his brother would see him, the soon to be Earl of Northumberland as the kings favourite. He would not like that. Would not like that at all. For Warwick would assume that he had done nothing to merit such favour.

After all, Warwick had been so very desperate to claim Hexham, when that failed he had sought to discredit his efforts. Now, when Edward had refused to accept Warwick's attempts, he would be seething. Furious at Johnny for riding south.

John's eyes saw, but did not process the masses of London. The hectic mix of people pressing against one another. Bodies so close to one another, that he could scarce believe that these people questioned what made them sick, why disease spread rapidly.

He was then brought back to the chambers he stood in. Plush, warm and expansive. The fire crackled in the ornate fire place calved into the stone wall masked by rich tapestries. The wooden floor was well polished, it's centre protected by rugs of wool and silks. Edward looked calm, without the worries of a king, or of any man of his years as he sat almost reclined in an ornate chair calved of polished oak.

"Johnny, ah Johnny." His words were almost a sigh. When John looked to him, his eyes were closed and on his face was a lazy smile. His feet were bare, resting on the foot stool of gold, red and silver cushion on top, his hands slumped over the edge of the chair. "I am glad for your company cousin. Pleased with your efforts. Somerset eh? Tell me."

"Your Grace?" John raised an eye brow, approaching his king and cousin and sitting in the chair opposite as Edward nodded to his silent question.

Edward suddenly sat up, looking attentive. "The battle. Tell me about how Somerset fell."

"He did not fall in battle your grace." Johnny felt nervous, sounded it as Edward leaned forward, his hands clasping each other, his knuckles going white from the pressure.

"No?"

"No he was captured in battle, was sentenced to death soon after your grace."

"At whose order?"

"Mine your grace."

"Your order?" His voice was calm, too calm. Johnny gulped, nodded. He was officially speechless. In his mind he saw the block, the scaffold, the axe with his name on it. "And what gives you the authority to remove a man's head my Lord? Without the kings authority. One could think that treason Johnny. Such a breech of etiquette, raising one's own status without my word is the behaviour of your brother John. If it were not Somerset you had dispatched I may be displeased."

"Trust it will not happen again your grace."

"I wish to talk of something else." Edward leaned back, his smiling broadening enough for Johnny to know he was happy. Even excited. He didn't wait for Johnny to speak. "My marriage."

"To Bona? You are excited to meet the young woman? I hear she is a beauty and Lord knows she's a woman of good sta-" John stopped as Edward greeted him with a look of pure confusion, crossed with disinterest and displeasure in equal measures.

"I have no intention of marrying Bona John. None."

John's heart pounded. What would Warwick say? He tried to focus. Tried to pay attention to Edward and succeeded just long enough to hear his next words. Words which made John's heart stop.

"I have met the world's most beautiful woman in Grafton Regis, her name is Elizabeth Grey nee Woodville, she is widow to Sir John Grey, daughter to-"

"I know who she is!" He would usually have cursed his lack of respect. Had trained himself better than to so openly breech the strict etiquette of nobility. Given the circumstances he could not bring himself to care. "She is the widow and daughter of Lancastrian traitors! She is a commoner! You surely cannot think to marry her!"


	12. Chapter 12

It was six months since they had returned from Grafton before Warwick arrived in London. 

John Neville waited on London Bridge as the procession approached, turning his horse back toward Westminster as his brother greeted him. "How is our cousin, brother?" Warwick smiled, obviously in good cheer and wishing to share it. Of course, he had known that Warwick's journey to France, his negotiations - however successful - were a waste of his time.   
"He is well then?" Once again John nodded in response, urging his horse to keep moving. Tension gripped every muscle in his body as he looked forward. Was it his mind, his imagination or was his mount suddenly reluctant to tread the path back to the palace? Did he know what was awaiting them at Westminster? "You seem quite John. Is all well with you?" 

"A minor infliction Dick. Nothing more." He said, biting his lip with anticipation. Of course there was nothing wrong with him. Regarding his health it was safe to say he had never felt better, Despite the aging of his mind, his body seemed strong and the regular tournaments in which he insisted in competing (if only to be prepared for battle when it should happen, rather than simply for his or others entertainments), he would never lose. 

His infliction was in his heart, an emotional conflict would soon begin and he felt it brewing in the pit of his stomach. He turned in the saddle to his mounts displeasure, spotting the carriage trudging along toward the back of the grand procession. It would have taken a fool to be ignorant of the upcoming predicament. Dick's negotiations in France had been successful, as a result Ned would be expected marry Princess Bona of Savoy. John sighed, looking forward as his mind raced. 

By all the records and on paper the marriage contract arranged by Warwick was to be a spectacular one. It would mean that their goal had already been completed Johnny knew. His hands tensed on the reins, inwardly he cursed their cousin and king. Closing his eyes he breathed slowly, trying desperately to relieve his taught nerves. There would be outcry and rages when Warwick knew of Ned's foolish actions. 

The storm was brewing, the lightning would soon strike and when it did, it would scold. 

"So what had happened at court in my absence?" Warwick brimmed with pride as he spoke to his brother, his eyes never leaving the road before him. 

God damn Dick, why can you not leave it alone? Johnny thought as he looked down. He had always been less confident than his older brother. He had always been living in the shadows of Warwick's glory, even in their boyhood, Richard had always been the first to achieve. With just a year between them, it had always seemed so greatly unfair that Richard had been destined for better things. Just once he had wished it would come to him, that he would have the responsibility that came with a position of privilege. 

Now however he regretted those thoughts so utterly. He felt sick to the stomach as his mind wandered, fixating on the past. Was this how Edmund had felt? That his brother, a little more than a year his senior, had been destined for the better in life. Lord knew when he had finally found the privilege, he had paid of it so dearly. 

John could not help but feel a similar fate would befall him when finally Richard knew all that had happened. 

Of course, John wanted to tell him, to get it over with and inform him of their cousins wayward and foolish decisions. He would not, could not. If only for the sake that he himself did not want to believe that Edward had married the Woodville whore. 

That would be their King's damnation. He had thrown away courtly etiquette in a gamble which would cost him everything. 

It was too soon that they clattered through the gates of Westminster. John watched the oak doors close behind them, the iron bolt incarcerate him in hell. He jumped from his horse, desperately gripping his control. He had to pretend that all was well, nothing could be amiss. Not if Edward was to keep Warwick's love. 

As John followed his brother he considered the predicament. This perhaps was not a disaster, mayhap their cousin would tell Warwick all. John had been one of the few to have known when Edward, in his youth and foolishness, had betrothed himself to Eleanor Butler. Upon confession they had dealt with that, they had handled the situation until it existed no longer. Who was to say that this had to be different? Hopefully this was one big mess they would be able to fix and then Edward would go forward with a sensible, desirable marriage.   
John shook his head; no, this would not be that simple. Elizabeth Woodville, for all the things he thought of her, was a beauty of a woman. 

He came to a standstill, watching as his brother reached to open the carriages door offering a gloved hand to the woman who sat inside. It was several moments before John, in his amazement, once again became aware of his senses as he rose from the deepest bow he thought he may have ever made. Bona was indeed very pretty, her button nose and pale complexion blending well with her rouged cheeks and blue eyes framed by the darkest brown hair he had seen. Her smile however did not reach her eyes and if Edward liked anything, he liked women with cheer. 

"Bonjour Monsieur." Bona greeted him, extending a velvet coated hand which he kissed gently. 

"Your Grace, this is my brother, John. The Earl of Northumberland." Warwick spoke with confidence, offering her an arm as they began a leisurely walk toward the palace. A walk which seemed like torture. 

"I thought it was the Percy's who were the Earls of Northumberland, unless I am much mistaken?" Bona spoke with a delicate French accent, her voice more high pitched than John thought he could bare. 

John tensed at her words. Henry Percy was a name he did not wish to hear. Had Warwick not educated her enough for her to know that the Percy's had fallen and that the Neville's had become powerful in their place, that he, John Neville, had defeated them? 

No, of course Warwick would not have allowed him even that small sniff of glory. 

"They were indeed madam, until my brother won his victory at Hexham." 

She simply nodded, dismissing the comment as she walked forward. Head held high with arrogance and haughtiness. John sighed, for as much as he hated the Woodville woman, even she, the most arrogant woman in England had nothing to rival the French princess. 

It was ten minutes then before they finally reached the cover of the expansive Westminster corridors. John was quick to take his leave, avoiding Warwick's keen eye as he escaped the procession before it reached the Great Hall where Bona would meet her potential husband. A husband who was looking for her as much as he sought to suffer the plague. He reached his chambers, locking the doors as his servants approached. He would not see them now, he would not speak to them. Nor would he speak to William Hastings, a man who had noticed his escape and had soon followed. 

Whether or not Will was his brother-in-law, he wished to speak of nothing at the moment. He wished to bury his head in the feather pillows of his bed and leave the world of London behind. He wanted to leave in peace before the war began.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guest chapter by Fangirl2013 - if anyone wants to write a guest chapter for any story of mine just drop a comment and I'll put you down as coauthor :)

A smile creeped its way on her fair face as she watched her husband sleep. Every so often, whispered mutterings would escape him and she would inevitably abandon her needlework at the sound. Trying to decipher his words proved futile and before too long, she merely gazed at him. Dark circles under his eyes told her just how well earned his sleep was. Exhaustion had radiated off him the moment he had arrived but instead of succumbing to his exhaustion, he had fought it. He filled the day talking with her, telling all the gossip from court and even how young king Edward was fairing. John had become animated in talking yet it hadn't distracted her from just how tired he appeared. Being married to the same man for so long meant she could detect the smallest, simplest of changes within him.

The loud, abrupt slamming of the wooden, mahogany door quickly wiped the smile from Isabel's face. She sighed quickly as John jerked awake. He blinked his eyes, as he woke, looking dishevelled and confused. As the Earl made his way into the room, Isabel felt the desire to wince. Not only were his footsteps loud but they seemed to put her nerves on edge. A look of realisation came to John's face at the sight of his stomping brother. Within a matter of moments, he'd straightened up giving his attention to him.

"What is the matter, Dick? Has something bad happened to Ned?" The words were panicked and full of worry and the sound of them filled his wife with dread. Her husband was not the type of man to be easily worried. He been through battle after battle and each time, he'd never once appeared to lose his composure. In the process, he had not only helped win the throne for Edward but her love and respect too.

Richard shook his head, at his brother's words, almost violently. His normally well kept hair resembled a bush in the gardens rather than anything belonging to an Earl and his shaking made the sight worse. Something was desperately wrong, Isabel knew that. Despite his brother's frenzied question, Richard made no attempt to respond. His blood seemed to be thundering in his veins, his anger filling him to his core.

All he could think of as a result was the betrayal that had occurred and what he wanted exactly to do about it!

Isabel waited as patiently as she could but the dread seemed to intensify within her. Her stomach felt full of nervous knots and she wanted nothing more than for him to talk. She glanced desperately at her husband, hoping to convey her desperation. John understood the look upon his wife's face, and within seconds, he smiled to her softly. It was forced and insincere yet Isabel appreciated the gesture.

Finally, words came to Richard, evoking a reaction in them both.

"He's married a common whore. Some lancastrian bitch. A widow." He forgot himself enough to swear but for once, neither John or Isabel remarked upon it. Richard's cheeks were fully flushed from his anger and, although, it didn't surprise them, his words certainly did. John had mentioned Bona, the french princess, and even Isabel could see the impact of the young king marrying such a woman.

John's mouth dropped open in surprise as his brother's words registered. More out of the shock he had actually done it, than anything else. He sighed wearily as he thought of Bona and how the court would react. He could picture the shocked expressions and he could even picture his aunt's reaction. For the first time since St Albans, Hedgley moore and even Hexam, he felt old. He felt a hand grasp his own softly and he was pleasantly surprised to find Isabel by his side. She looked distressed but her touch was comforting. As he watched his brother pace up and down, obviously tormented by the news, John felt oddly at peace. At least, he had Isabel at his side, whatever happened with Edward and his brother.


	14. Chapter 14

Warwick Castle, Warwickshire  
1469

John Neville sat alone on a bench in the Great Hall of Warwick castle. His sister-in-law the Countess of Warwick had left him there little more than an hour before. he did not like the woman, nor did he much like her attitude to what was about to happen. Johnny could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his hands shook of their own accord. He had made it here in time, he could say as much with thanks. when news had reached him in Nortumberland that Warwick was riding against the King he had tried to alert Edward in London. That had failed and he had heard with a heavy heart that the King had already left London to ride north in his attempt to quash what he thought was another simple rebellion. John was no fool, he had known that Edward, though smart, would not have anticipated that those who could have been behind it would be no other than his brother and cousin. John had then in haste made his way to Warwick. The Countess had been curt on his arrival, her normally icy character far from absent as she showed him into the castle. Now he sat quietly thinking of how they got themselves to this point. How he would save his brother. Thinking of anything but the possibility that Warwick and Clarence may arrive with the severed head of a dead king.   
  
That was a possibility to grave to consider. 

The tension had been rising since that day five years before, when Warwick had confronted the King on his marriage. In truth, so few people had been happy about the match. John himself among the discontented, Will Hastings (and Edward's most loyal friend) took place at his side. Yet few men had turned to treason for their discontent. It had been the ambitions of one man and the greed of another that in truth had led to this situation. John sighed, trying to hide his feelings as he stared at the cracked wood on the table close by. George was a fool, a young and naive fool.he wanted nothing more than to sate his own greed, he had no inclination of what it meant to be king, nor would he make a admirable monarch. Somehow however John knew he could not bring himself to blame his foolish York cousin. He could not. George was little more than a child, he had for so many years been fed the poison of Warwick's ambitions as the Earl had swiftly fallen from favour as fast as the Woodville's gained it. John could not bnring himself to find sympathy for his brother's cause. For John himself knew that it had been only through his attempts to command a King that Warwick had found himself to deeply unpopular. The ice bitch Elizabeth had hated John too, yet Edward had done little to sanction him.

It displeased the Queen he knew, that he should be allowed prosperity. That a Neville should profit. He recalled the days soon after her coronation, when Elizabeth had regarded him with an icy contempt. He however had done nothing but offered her his show of respect, a respect running only skin deep. The woman made his blood run cold, and he too had been enraged of the news that Edward had married a common widow in the place of the French Princess he had been offered. He however had not raised his sword in rebellion, and he would not be the one risking the block. Unless of course Edward chose to bring the force of England down upon the House of Neville, and stranger things had been done.   
  
No, John had learned to live in silent cooperation with the woman he was forced to call queen. He had adapted and adjusted, she would not go away and Edward was not an easy man to dislodge. Nor John was forced to confess did he much like the alternatives. To give the crown to George would be to give the crown to a simpleton with no more ability to rule than an infant. To give the throne back to Henry would be a a regression certain to see them all killed and the Percy's returned to power in Northumberland. The only option he could stomach was a possibility far to weak to bother with. Richard, the young Duke of Gloucester he knew would make a fine possibility of a king. At only 17 he showed signs of loyalty, of strength and intelligence that few men of forty could muster. Yet the boy would have to see George and Edward in their graves before the crown would fall upon his head and damn the boy, he would not see Edward scraped.

Gloucester would not be king until Edward was dead.

John shook his head, banging his fist onto the bench. Why had his brother to be so stupid? Why must Warwick put him through this? Why did he have need to confront his own family?

He was not left to think too long. The sounds of voices filled his ears as men approached from the corridor. He did not need to listen hard to recognise them.

 


	15. Chapter 15

"John!" Ned did his part to look cheerful, for that John could not help but offer admiration. Warwick, normally cutting a imposing figure, seemed nothing next to the giant that was their cousin. "If I had known at the end of such a ride was you? I may have kicked my horse to gallop." John could not bring himself to laugh, though be tried, only a smile could set on his face. Fading as his brother caught his eye.

Though disgust filled him, he forced courtesy in his voice. "Ned, you do not look like a man forced to march north against his will." His point was clear, and John saw his brother take it, turning away, Warwick had begun his fight to clear the hall.

"I was not forced to march north Johnny. Did you not hear, I am welcomed here? Invited to march north with Dick, with little other choice."

"By definition, I would call that forced." Each word was emphasized, and John smirked as he saw his brother pause, saw Dick for once take upon his shoulders the words, the criticisms of another man. For once the great earl, the king maker so had now been named, was not so confident. At any other time, under alternative circumstances, John knew he would have felt concern for his brothers haggered appearance. In that moment, he could not bring himself much to care. "Else is the dungeon at York is an inn."

"A damned rotten one too eh John?" Edward grinned.

"I hope your ride was not all so sour?"

"Mercifully, no, it was not."

"Nor might I add were his lodgings." Warwick added, with no lack of resentment.

"As our welcomed guest, I hope your grace will find comfort and refreshments here at Middleham, and if you do not mind, I would have a word brother."

"John I-"

"Now."

"Dick." Edward spoke. "I am sure I can occupy myself, and I promise, as your welcome guest I will not exceed myself so much as to leave this room without your blessing."

"You heard him." John did not give quarter, gripping his brothers arm he pulled hard, toward the corridors and away into the castle. "What in God's name were you thinking? If indeed you were thinking at all-"

"Are you questioning me, in my own household?"

"You are right I am! He is king! Do you know what that means? We swore upon the cross that we would be loyal to him, our father died for him to be king! Blood was spilled and my God if I do not know people suffered for it..." his intake of breath was sharp. "And now you wish to throw it away, to spit in the face of those who sacrificed and for what, to put a simpleton on the throne?"

"That simpleton as you call him is our cousin, and royal Duke-"

"A royal.duke because his brother is king! You seek to change that, and why-"

"Do you pay not attention?" Warwick scoffed. "Christ Johnny! That man is no more a king than you or I." The older man did not relent as his brother cut him off.

"Except brother, that you seek to be king in all but name-"

"I am surprised that you of all believe her propaganda."

"I am surprised that you of all think that it is she, and not common observation that has me see such."

"Then do you not too observe that he is a bastard?"

"No." John kicked the table, lashing out in his frustration. How could his brother be so foolish? "I do not. I reject that, as did you before it became inconvenient for you. As did our brother George, George who swore him in! Why did you send George to meet him Dick? Could you not at least have done him the honour of meeting him yourself? Do you truly think so little of him to believe that he would kill you where you stood, and so you sent the holy man in your place because you know that George, like our uncle and Clarence will follow you like loyal pups and do your bidding-"

"Or I sent him as a peace offering! You think little of me truly brother, and much of yourself-"

"Much of myself because I am loyal!"

"Mayhap that is so, but to which cause? Should you not first be loyal to your family?"

"I am loyal to my king, who is my family in case you have forgotten that Dick. It seems I am the only one who has not, except Thomas wouldn't and nor would our father. Edmund would turn in his grave for Clarence as would York, and there is a fresh place in hell for you Dick, and for George. For our brother George of all of you-"

"And he is disgusted with what he has done, do you not see how hard it was to enlist him?"

"In truth I am not surprised and that should have acted itself as confirmation of what you should not be doing." John snapped with bitterness.

"He agreed John because be sees our cousins rule for what it is. A sham."

John said nothing more, did not think he could bare it. Did not think he could cope with the words his cousin said. Did not think any of this was bearable. No. He did not wish to say another word as he stormed from the room returning to the Great Hall, only to be greeted with an awkward silence as Ned sat, like he was in his council, like he sat upon the throne at Westminster. Only he sat in the Hall at Middleham, his expression blank, his emotion hidden.

A sight John realised that made his blood run cold.


End file.
